Lust for Gold

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You are looking at Superstition Mountain.

A barbaric pile of rock,

40 miles long by 20 wide.

The man is Floyd Buckley.

He's going into this 800 square miles

of sudden and violent death...

because he thinks

it's just another mountain...

and because he's greedy for its treasure.

Yeah, I said treasure. Gold.

$20 million worth of precious yellow metal...

waiting to be found

in America's most elusive mine...

appropriately named "The Lost Dutchman".

It's simple to get to. The mountain, I mean.

Just drive 36 miles due east

from Phoenix, Arizona, and there she is.

She looks easy from the outside.

Inside, it's like Satan's

private art gallery.

Sculptured pagan granites,

unmellowed by time...

hidden in terrifying canyons and gorges.

But if you'd like to pick up $20 million...

and figure, like Buckley there,

that a mountain's just a mountain...

I'll show you where to look.

But before you leave for Arizona...

you ought to know that 21 men have been

murdered grabbing for that dough...

and hundreds more have died in other ways.

You see, this is the true story

of Superstition Mountain.

The biography of a death trap.

My name's Barry Storm.

I was hurled into this story

when I heard that shot.

Up till then, I was just an ordinary guy

with a reasonable curiosity...

about the Lost Dutchman Mine.

A curiosity I wish I'd never been born with.

I hurried towards the sound of the report...

and hoped I'd find a hunter

who'd maybe bagged a deer.

I found Floyd Buckley, sprawled and dead.

His blood, life, and dreams

spilling out on the unfriendly ground.

When you find a dead man,

you're supposed to call the police.

I'm a good citizen.

I set out to do what you're supposed to do.

Fear and panic

gave me a boost up over that ledge...

and I began to run, not walk,

to the nearest exit.

Speed no longer meant anything to Buckley,

but it did to me.

I didn't want to be framed in the crosshairs

of a telescopic sight...

on a high-powered rifle.

I'd just gone in to look for gold.

I didn't want to find lead

from the business end of a killer's gun.

It took me three days

and 36 miles of tough hiking...

to put the sheriff

from Florence, Arizona into action.

Identification bracelet.

Wallet.

Telegram.

"Lecturing in Los Angeles, September 30th. "

They're going to have to get a new speaker.

That's all the personal effects.

Let's go.

Sit down, son.

You say your name's Barry Storm.

You're from Colorado

and you've been here only 10 days.

You're no prospector, but you were up there

when Buckley got shot.

What were you doing in the mountain?

I know it sounds kind of bad,

but I was following Buckley.

You were what?

Now, wait a minute. I didn't shoot him.

I had a good reason to be up there.

My grandfather was Jacob Walz.

- Who?

- Jacob Walz.

The man who owned

the Lost Dutchman Gold Mine.

The Dutchman, huh?

That goes back to about 1880.

He's supposed to have killed

quite a few men in his time.

That doesn't have anything to do with me.

All I know is, when I was a kid...

my mum heard about this mine

her father was supposed to have found.

I always figured

someday I'd come down here.

So you came down here. Go on.

I thought there might still be a buck

laying around that had my name on it.

The first place I went to

was the Claims Office in Phoenix.

- How do you spell that again?

- Walz. W-A-L-Z. Jacob Walz.

Nope. Nobody by that name

ever registered a claim here.

This record goes clear back to 1870.

But there must have been.

The Lost Dutchman

was supposed to be worth a fortune.

He wouldn't leave the money laying around.

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